Douchpug is an innocent canine reminder of the failure of the human condition. It’s not his fault, he was born the bastard child of whimsy, the product of mankind’s attempt to manipulate his circumstances to suit his fancy. Douchpug’s ancestors were once-powerful, noble creatures. Mighty hunters of ground squirrels and bison, living by their wits, preying upon herds of nomadic ungulates and devouring targets of opportunity. Now he is reduced to a cartoonish caricature, freakish head and bulbous eyes, incapable of self-reliance and peeing on the carpet out of confusion and fear.
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Great forests were laid low and mighty rivers reduced to radioactive sludge, flowing through impoverished ghettoes all in the attempt to conquer and profit. Totalitarian controllers feed The Machine with the blood of the innocent, promising utopian bliss while requiring fascist adherence to protocol and demanding compliance to the New Religious Doctrine forced upon useful idiots and unwitting public school children.
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Damn it all.
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I stumble into the hovel shaking off the dampness, once again drunk and unstable, the soft strains of Robert Johnson emanating from a worn cassette player. Rodent droppings, shattered dreams and empty NyQuil® bottles litter the floor. The fragrance of fried Spam and meat loaf mingle with the odor of cheap perfume, cellulite and stale cigarette smoke from the previous night’s shame-filled act of debauchery. Autumnal winds turn cold and foreboding as the temperature drops and the constant drizzle of manic-depression beats steadily against the rusted tin roof, finding it’s way into the cracks and crevasses of an unstable psyche. The faces in the wall sockets are gently weeping.
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Must I endure another bleak, interminable winter on this unending expanse of tedium and frozen mud?
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Dusk draws nigh as the light through the soot-stained window fades slowly, one more pull from the plastic-bottled elixir. It trickles slowly down the back of the throat like anesthetic molasses and rests comfortably between pancreas and spleen. Sweet Lucinda’s plaintive voice cries softly of Concrete, Barbed Wire and lonely busses bound for Baton Rouge. Another unseen sun sets behind dismal, sodden clouds.
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Oh, Sweet NyQuil®, giver of life, merciful elixir of Angels, nectar of hummingbirds, release me from the surly bonds of this troubled place and deliver me into the waiting arms of Peaceful Slumber………

that is another hermit essay too epic to follow in the same vein.
i can only see douchpug as an example of the ironic douche, being used to camouflage the actual douchery on display. even owning a pink pug sized striped flippable collar shirt is douchery beyond the redemption of ironic special pleading. if the pug collar fits, you cannot acquit.

Hermit’s long lost brother Valdy and friends bring us the first bring down song of the day from the British Columbia Country Music Awards from somewhere in British Columbia.
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Yes, Hermit, the cold winds are blowing up here in Canuckistan. After a night of shooing away errant polar bears and hopped-up Eskimos in a blizzard my trusty golden retreiver Bunny and I are eating green bacon and scotch by the newly lit fire in the igloo.
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Play us a rock and roll song Valdy.
.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ty714BtOwQ4&feature=related

5:11 am December, 10Champagne Katie's Houseboy's Drycleaner said...

Got the moves like Jagger and the collar popped like McGinley. Go in peace, Douchpug. The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.

6:46 am December, 10The Dude said...

I bet I could pee on Douchepug, if he’d just hold still…

7:21 am December, 10Et Tu Douche? said...

@Hermit
You had me at “nomadic ungulates”, as always great stuff!!!.
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I for one like the the little pugster. May he have unlimited leg to hump and if he ever makes it to Tallahasse hopefully he will pee all over the Shortstacks carpet not out of confusion and fear but good old fashion fuck you spite.

While we are waiting to see if we get a post today, some acquaintances of mine called to commend me on my acceptance to a fast-track post grad deal that will get me out of the sad, lonely business of legalized loan sharking in the mortgage business. I guess I really did satisfy my Master’s requirements 20 years ago but never applied for graduation. So I will travel and value large buildings built by Dark Sock and his ilk and be trapped in the suit of the man I have tried not to be for the next two decades until I succumb to retirement or sweet sudden massive stroke.
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Enough about the DJ’s problems and drug addled return to school. Fucking cash train universities. Fuck.
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Hailing from England we have my friends, the Tolkein reading Genesis-leaning band from the eighties performing their two songs in Heidelburg, Germany. The land of the bratwurst buttplug and leather steins of heavy ale and leiderhosen.
Frau-wenches serving frothy consumable liquids and fatty traditional phallic symbols for lunch.
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Polish up your swastikas and get ready for some Euro extravagance with the one, the only, (Thank God) Marillion. I really don’t mind these dudes because the length of these two songs was exactly how long it took me to orally please my artsy fuck-buddy chicks when I was a man. And I am as drunk as fuck at 11:43. The sobriety of the new year may prove painful.
.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zm46ObQdbZw&feature=related

8:29 am December, 10Medusa Oblongata said...

This is why most people are not qualified to own dogs.

1:21 pm December, 10CB Popped said...

Great show Hermit.

2:25 pm December, 10Nancy Dreuche said...

@Hermit, woooo? Whatever Nyquil is paying you I’ll divide it half and pay you that. I want you on my marketing team.
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